


the brimbles so sharp

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: Kingdom of Rust/The Fairy Dealer, Tiger Prince
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, also the darkest timeline for these assholes, magical compulsion, the crossover with an audience of three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23304862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: Taidgh's smile is a knife. "Weren't you listening? I'm not going to makeanythingeasy." He tips forward, putting a hand to either side of Gale's head to support himself, getting in Gale's face. "You want to tell yourself you only did what was absolutely necessary. You don't want to be the sort of person who would steal his own brother's free will. But you and I both know you're that person and more, Nightingale." Gale glares but doesn't interrupt him, panting beneath him, their breath mingling. "The only way this will happen is by coercion. Force or geas, and you're too much of a coward for force, so that leaves..."
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	the brimbles so sharp

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts), [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/gifts).



> Please, heed the warnings. This very much dances on the line between dubcon and noncon, and involves highly unethical use of magical compulsion. 
> 
> This was supposed to be for Lion's birthday back in November, but I suck at writing to a deadline, so I just posted a preview at that time. So I'm going to call this a very late Lion-gift/a very early gift for June's late-April birthday. Happy wrong date to you both, I love you, have something awful <3

The rules are as follows:

  1. You may not cause him physical harm, directly or indirectly.
  2. You may not conspire with anyone else to physically harm him.
  3. You are his lieutenant; you may not abandon your post.
  4. Until and unless you are freed, these rules take precedence over all other orders.
  5. You’ve played Simon Says, haven’t you? If he gives an order and uses your full name, you must follow it. All other orders (except the rules) may be ignored.
  6. Wake up.
  7. Wake _up_ , Tiger _._



Taidgh shakes awake on his feet and ready to kill someone.

The latter isn’t unusual, but the former, at least, is new.

Gale stands before him, watching, impassive. A good target for the murderous impulse. Taidgh goes for the throat—

No, he doesn’t. Taidgh lifts his hands and doesn’t recall why he lifted them. Taidgh folds his outstretched fingers back into his palms, back into fists, and drops them to his sides. Taidgh clenches those fists, and breathes, and tries to catch the edge of an awareness that wriggles away slick as an eel.

“What the _fuck_ do you want?” he snaps, when it eludes him entirely.

Gale’s face lights up, a smile dawning across it—a smile of triumph in a war where Taidgh does not yet know the terrain or the stakes, which only increases his directionless fury. “I told you,” Gale says brightly, as if this is a conversation they have just been having, “I want you to be my lieutenant.” Taidgh tries to recall that conversation—feels it is important for him to know what was said before this moment—but it’s like reaching backwards into black fog.

There are clues, perhaps, in the here and now. They are in their father’s office. Gale’s office, he supposes. Gale is dressed down: an informal request, then, as if they are real brothers, or friends. He does remember the last time Gale asked, in the night garden. _I let him suffer as long as I could. I’m sorry you weren’t here for it._ He refused then, as he will refuse now; Gale places too much faith in family ties. Taidgh opens his mouth to put him in his place.

“Of course I’m your lieutenant,” he says impatiently, half-wondering if it’s Gale’s memory he should worry about rather than his own. He remembers the last time Gale asked, in the night garden. _Name your terms. I assure you I can meet them._ He had planned to kill his brother that night, but that had proved too tempting an offer to pass up, the opportunity to demand—

What? What concession had he asked for in return? Why can’t he remember?

It doesn’t really matter, for the moment. Gale always pays his debts, this Taidgh knows about his infuriating half-brother. Taidgh will get his.

Gale is still watching him, something hopeful in his expression. Taidgh hates how appealingly flawed he is, how touchable, how unforgivably magnetic.

“Was there something else?” Taidgh snarls, before he does something he won’t forgive _himself_ for.

“No.” Gale smiles again, fond, as if they’re sharing a joke, and Taidgh loathes and desires him so deeply it’s like a living animal in his gut. “Just be your usual caustic self.”

He wants to punch the smile off Gale’s awful incredible face, but he doesn’t; he knows the rules.

The _rules?_

The metaphorical eel brushes past his metaphorical legs, and he seizes it this time, struggling to keep hold. _Does_ he know the rules? What rules does he know? He wants to tear Gale apart, wants to make him bleed, and he can’t, because...because it’s against the rules.

What rules?

“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” he says in sudden understanding, and discovers to his (somewhat petty) satisfaction that the rules don’t say anything about destroying Gale’s office in a fit of rage.

~

So he can destroy things, though it isn't that satisfying after the first few times. He can attack anyone save Gale, but Gale's people can defend themselves, and as far as he can tell Gale hasn't extended him any special protections. If he goes on scrapping with every handy target he's eventually going to slip up, or open a grudge deep enough to rebound on him; he decides to save picking fights for when he actually means to make a point, rather than as petty rebellion.

He can't leave. Well, he can leave physically, walk out of the house onto the grounds, or away entirely. He's not a prisoner, not in that way. But when he does it with the intent to stay gone, he finds himself inexorably drifting back. He recalls a bauble he forgot, or some book he wishes to read from Gale's collection, or simply realizes it's dinnertime and comes home to eat like a neighborhood cat. He can walk away with such determination, but in the end he comes back with renewed intent to help Gale restore their lands and consolidate their power.

Those rules are easy enough to figure out. He cannot harm the Lord Nightingale; he cannot walk away from his obligations. But there are more insidious parts of the geas, places where he can't find the seams no matter how hard he looks.

He's not stupid. It's easy enough to see that Gale desires him. There is a tension between them—maybe it has always been there, though he didn't know what it was, before. He didn't notice how often Gale watches his mouth, or how charged his silences sometimes are.

He didn't _need_ to notice before, because he wasn't _under a fucking geas_ before, wasn't always noticing himself how finely muscled and graceful Gale was or getting flashes of lightning down his spine whenever Gale laughed. Before it had been—envy, jealousy, the furious need to spill his brother's blood; now the geas has taken that away, put it behind a wall out of reach, and all he wants is to spill something else entirely.

Too bad it isn't his own idea. If he could horrify Gale with the taboo of it, spit on their father's memory, he would happily indulge his urges; but giving in would be permitting Gale to rule him, and if Gale is too foolish and trusting to bind him fully, Taidgh's not about to reward him for it by doing the work for him.

What he doesn’t understand, though, is why _Gale_ hasn’t given the order. Taidgh might assume he liked the illusion of the chase, except...there’s been no chase. He might even think it was not reciprocal, that Gale only gave him this desire as a sort of sick amusement—if it weren’t so blatantly obvious what Gale is imagining every time his eyes linger on Taidgh.

Taidgh tests his boundaries, and does the work Gale wishes of him, because one or the other will be his path to freedom and vengeance. He puts his focus into those things, because if he is busy being both an immense nuisance and Gale’s right hand, he has little energy left over to wish that Gale _would_ order him to less honorable service.

~

It’s not a throne. He knows it’s not a throne, because Gale has told him so, patiently, at length.

It is, however, a fancy-ass chair, in which Gale sits to conduct important business with important people and look impressive, so for Taidgh the distinction isn’t particularly relevant.

It’s a bit childish, admittedly, but he’s noticed Gale tries to avoid giving him orders beyond the nebulous _rules_ he’s still trying to get the shape of. How can he work out the loopholes if he doesn’t have any test cases? The only possible solution is to goad his brother into more ultimatums.

Which is why he is sitting in the not-throne, knowing full well that Gale will be meeting with Lady Cass of Raingarden in fifteen minutes.

Gale looms up in his peripheral vision, arms folded, and waits to be noticed. It’s almost endearing how he expects that to work, or how long he waits before clearing his throat; Taidgh goes on writing.

“You’re welcome to sit in,” Gale says, when the throat clearing doesn’t earn him so much as a glance, “but you’ll need to find another chair.”

Not an order. “Afraid I’m working and can’t be interrupted just now. You’ll have to find somewhere else to entertain.” Taidgh uses his best bored-bureaucrat voice without looking up.

“Hmm. No.” Gale puts his foot against the not-throne and pushes it firmly away from the table, interrupting Taidgh’s writing. Admittedly, if it _were_ a real throne, it probably wouldn’t slide so easily, so that’s a checkmark in favor of Gale’s interpretation. “Move, please.”

It _sounds_ more like an order, but Taidgh has no problem staying put. He wonders if the _please_ weakens it, or if Gale’s simply choosing not to put any power behind it. “Maybe you should do my paperwork and I should charm the Cassowary.”

“With your sparkling personality?” Despite the sarcasm, Gale is clearly losing patience. “ _Move_ , Tiger.”

 _That_ one he feels. Maybe it’s the tone. If he weren’t on guard for it, he would leap up immediately. Even prepared, he can’t _resist_ the order, but he can follow it in the most obstructive way possible.

He slides two inches to the right. There’s plenty of room in the large chair to do it. The compulsion is satisfied.

“Don’t call me that,” Taidgh adds, because petulance fits his narrative too. “No one ever called me that except _him_.”

Gale makes a face. “Stop acting like a child and I’ll stop addressing you like one.” He’s probably trying to sound like their father, but he’s never sounded _more_ like a bossy older brother, which means Taidgh’s getting under his skin. They’re a terrible pair; Taidgh can’t suppress a smile.

“You first.”

Gale makes a sound of extreme exasperation. “Out of my chair. Now.” And then, “ _Tiger._ ”

Taidgh gets up because he’s tired of the game, not because—oh, hell, that was an order again. He hates how his mind slips around it, how it explains the compulsion away like he _chooses_ to do the things he's commanded to, of his own free will. He hates how hard he has to look to catch the lie, even when he knows it’s there. “Fine. _Nightingale._ ”

And then he realizes.

Gale wouldn’t call him Tiger by accident. Even with their strained history, it’s not what he would default to if he weren’t thinking, and by that measure—wouldn’t it be an excellent choice for a password of sorts? A word that means _I mean it_ without raising any red flags, a spy to slip unnoticed into otherwise harmless sentences and turn them into demands?

He turns this new knowledge over, and wonders how he can make use of it. One thought keeps coming to the fore, though it isn't necessarily a helpful one: his brother _isn’t_ stupid. Taidgh would not ever confess it, but realizing that frightens him.

"Are you staying?" Gale asks, amiable again now that he has his way.

Taidgh keeps his manner impertinent, though his mind is working at speed. "I thought I was acting like a child. Surely you don't think I can be trusted?"

"I live in hope," Gale says pleasantly.

~

Taidgh tries to keep his head, but if he were his namesake, he'd be pacing the confines of his cage. He continues being petty for awhile, pushing Gale into giving him orders—but Gale only ever gives brief commands to rectify the immediate issue, then lets Taidgh go back to doing as he likes. It isn't getting him anywhere useful; he can't seem to make Gale lose his temper.

Frustration is making him frantic.

He can think of one area still to apply pressure, though. Maybe he's been going about this the wrong way. After all, usually he does things that Gale wants him to _stop_ , and a carefully-chosen sentence can be the end of that. Perhaps what he needs is to start something Gale can be driven to ordering him to _continue_. Something where Taidgh can be infuriating every step of the way, without ever being solvable with one of Gale's minimal-interference corrections.

He's not certain of the plan beyond that, but then again, he's been grasping at straws since the beginning. Maybe he can coax Gale into issuing a command that contradicts the rules. Maybe he can learn enough to circumvent them. It's...a work in progress.

When Gale comes in one evening to find Taidgh in his bed, he actually does seem a bit discomfited, which is promising.

“Are you lost?” he says, raising an eyebrow in placid amusement—but the tense way he paused when he came in has already given him away. He doesn’t know what game Taidgh is playing. “Your rooms are a few doors down. I’m happy to draw you a map.”

“I’ve decided I like yours better. The bed’s bigger. More room to spread out.” Taidgh stretches expansively, watching Gale watch him.

“Not with two people in it.” Gale can play a game of his own. He begins undressing for bed as if Taidgh is not there, stripping down unselfconsciously before starting to unpin the ornaments from his hair and lay them out on the dressing-table. The process takes some time, and gives Taidgh an enviable view in the meanwhile.

“You don’t think? I can spread out on you as easily as on the mattress.”

Gale divests himself of bracelets and rings without reacting. He’s faced to the dressing-table, so Taidgh can’t see his expression; but he doesn’t have a smart reply, so Taidgh counts it a victory. 

He comes over to the bed once he’s unadorned. Sits on the edge, tucking one leg beneath him. “What are you doing, Taidgh?”

“Annexing,” Taidgh says carelessly, because he’s unimpressed with Gale’s reasonable-concerned-brother act, and if he really wants to know he’s going to have to drag it out of him the old-fashioned way. “Adverse possession.”

Gale sighs, long and slow as if Taidgh is so great a burden he has to dredge the sighs up from some deep well. “Does acting out make you feel better about your situation?”

All right, he’ll give him this one for free, but only because the answer is so satisfying. “No, but it makes you feel worse about yours.”

He’d thought Gale was expressionless before, but now his face shutters in a way that makes it truly blank and not just blandly neutral. Good—that’s real anger.

Gale doesn’t speak again, not even to order him out. He puts the lights out and climbs beneath the coverlet and somehow manages to reclaim more than half the bed without touching any part of Taidgh.

But that won’t last. Not now that Taidgh’s put a crack in the glass around him.

~

Taidgh gives him a few days to sulk before pushing any further. Gale acts as if nothing has changed during the day; at night, he ignores Taidgh entirely, coming to bed without acknowledging his presence in any way. Taidgh doesn’t break the silence, though he continues to appreciate the view, because he might as well get something out of the whole rotten business.

He doesn’t know what woke him tonight, but it doesn’t matter. The house is silent, and there’s no trace of light at the windows; Gale sleeps like the dead. Not in the colloquial sense—Taidgh doubts it would take much at all to rouse him—but very still and very silent, his breath inaudible even in the soundless room. If he didn’t radiate heat, Taidgh might think someone had beat him to assassination.

He rolls over and presses in against Gale’s back, hot and close and all bare skin; lets his warm breath fill the curve of Gale’s neck; wraps his arm over Gale’s chest and runs his hand flat-palmed down the length of him, throat to chest to belly. (His _abs_ , for fuck’s sake. Ridiculous.) Gale stirs slowly, his voice indistinct with the soft confusion of sleep. “Taidgh?”

Taidgh hums lowly and pushes against him, tangling their legs together. Gale shifts a little more, and suddenly Taidgh finds his wrist in an iron grip, his hand being held up and away from the heat of Gale's skin. Before he's quite decided how to respond to that, Gale switches hands, taking Taidgh's wrist in his left and kicking free of his legs so he can roll over to face him, still holding the offending hand up and away from their bodies.

He sounds entirely awake now, when he speaks. "You could have touched me any time, and I think you know I wouldn't have refused you. The fact that you decided to do it like a thief—in the middle of the night, when you know I'm _profoundly_ asleep—makes me _deeply_ doubt your sincerity. What are you up to, Taidgh?"

Ridiculous, that Gale can be so coherent straight from sleep. So strong, too—Taidgh twists his wrist experimentally, testing Gale's hold, and it doesn't waver. "What's that saying about gifts and horses?"

"No." Gale's grip tightens until it's painful; a thrill courses through Taidgh. "Try again."

Taidgh's disinclination to do anything Gale asks without a direct order wars with his need to rub Gale's nose in what he's done. Impulse control isn't his strong suit, though; the latter wins out before too long. "Did you think that just because you were the one who set the trap, it would spring at a time most convenient for you?" He lays his free hand on Gale's chest, then slides it slowly up and over his shoulder until it rests against the vertebrae at the back of his neck, pulling them closer together. Gale keeps his hold on the other wrist, but doesn't stop him, watching him in the dark. "How have you not figured this out by now? I have no defense against your orders, but I will sure as _fuck_ take them out of you in blood—or misery, since you've denied me the blood as well. I'm not going to make anything easy, or comfortable, for you."

"I didn't give an order for this." Gale gives a short sharp tug on Taidgh's wrist, and then they are pressed together front to front, an affluence of skin.

"Not in so many words." Taidgh has him, he _knows_ he has him. 

"Not in any words at all," Gale murmurs, with a note of satisfaction that Taidgh dislikes, "as it happens."

"What an interesting coincidence," Taidgh says, his tone growing poisonous as he rolls forward to sit up and straddle Gale's hips—Gale doesn't stop that, either. "My asshole half-brother gets hold of my reins, and suddenly I'm consumed with incestuous desire. What are the odds? But then, I guess you do need your plausible deniability to get up in the morning."

" _Consumed_ ," Gale repeats, dark and smug. "That's a hell of an adjective. Not a coincidence, no, but I didn't put it there." His teeth are very white when he grins, even in the dark room. "Tell me what you actually want, Tiger."

An order he wasn't expecting. He obeys it automatically. "Your death at my hands." He's not even being obstructive; it's the unpracticed truth.

Gale laughs. "Granted. And when I strip that away?" His words fall slow and precise, each one carefully emphasized. "Tell me what you really want, Tiger, underneath that."

He fights it, now that he's prepared. He can't really resist—he simply doesn't have the skill—but he holds it in as long as he can, does his best to obscure what he's about to say, and when the words do come out they're spit with all the venom he can muster. "Fuck. You."

Gale's surprise is a small victory, short-lived though it may be. The split second where he thinks Taidgh has disobeyed the order—where he does the quick calculation of what other orders might be overcome next—is delicious, even if it's all the worse when Gale realizes that was an answer, not a statement of defiance.

He laughs again, then, not the brief chuckle of before but pleased and full-throated. Taidgh hates the way the sound turns him on.

"Well, then," Gale says, as if that's all that _needs_ to be said, and lays his hands on Taidgh's hips in a manner that can only be described as casually possessive.

"Oh," Taidgh hisses, because he is not the only one who can be made to face the parts of himself he would deny, "is it that easy for you?"

"Why not?" Gale's hands slide upwards, mapping skin, claiming territory.

Taidgh's smile is a knife. "Weren't you listening? I'm not going to make _anything_ easy." He tips forward, putting a hand to either side of Gale's head to support himself, getting in Gale's face. "You want to tell yourself you only did what was absolutely necessary. You don't want to be the sort of person who would steal his own brother's free will. But you and I both know you're that person and more, Nightingale." Gale glares but doesn't interrupt him, panting beneath him, their breath mingling. "The only way this will happen is by coercion. Force or geas, and you're too much of a coward for force, so that leaves..."

Gale's hands have tightened on his waist. He gives Taidgh a little shake, an expression of frustration, but his tone is even. "Is that how you like it? Being dominated?"

"Good redirect. No. I'll be clearer." Taidgh lays himself flush against Gale's body, wriggling a little to settle in, the suggestive movement a direct contrast to his words. "I do not consent. Not to any of it. Not to your _rules_ , not to any order you might give, most especially not to sex. Everything I do here is influenced by the restraints you've put on me, though you've been pretending otherwise. If you mean to have me, you're going to do it with that fact staring you in the face."

Gale rolls his hips to grind up against him, clearly thinking he can tempt Taidgh out of his ultimatum. The next few things happen in the space of a bare few seconds: Taidgh starts to dismount, rolling off of him, fully intent on walking out if that's what it takes to make Gale understand he's serious; Gale renders the point moot, grabbing his wrist again, hauling him back before he's even completed the movement.

"Kiss me, Tiger," he growls, before Taidgh has a chance to struggle, and even though Taidgh's losing a war of attrition he takes a fierce joy in having won this one battle.

These are the rules Taidgh makes for himself: nothing for free, but he will be generous with what's been paid for. So: no more than kisses, not until he's commanded, but _oh_ , what he can do with a kiss. On the mouth first, following not just the letter but the spirit of the order—though Gale shouldn’t get used to that. He makes it filthy and heated, full of promises he won’t keep without being forced to it, and Gale meets him in kind.

Next, little playful kisses: to the corners of Gale’s lips, or high on his chin, dancing away when Gale tries to chase him for a deeper kiss. Then along that beautifully cut jawline, fitting his lips to the clean line of bone, letting them drag a little each time he lifts off and moves to the next spot.

Gale’s ear—and the hollow behind it—is acutely sensitive, a discovery Taidgh exploits with terrible glee. His brother’s voice goes surprisingly high and breathy in pleasure, birdlike somehow; it makes him seem fragile, which he is not. Taidgh knows; he’s tried very hard to break him over the years, after all. Maybe now he’ll finally succeed.

It takes some time for Gale to realize Taidgh means to play this way all night if he’s not redirected. He tries to press Taidgh’s hips down, thrust up against him again, but Taidgh is slippery and moves in ways that makes it difficult and somewhat unsatisfying, without ever interrupting his campaign of kisses.

Gale could hold him down, of course. He’s stronger by a significant margin, and honestly, Taidgh would only fight hard enough to remind them both that he _is_ fighting. But Gale won’t, because he won’t be able to justify it to himself later.

Not that Taidgh will let him justify _this_ , either. He doesn't realize yet how this will haunt him, because Taidgh will remind him every damn day.

"Touch me then, Tiger, if you won't give me any other relief."

"No," Taidgh says pleasantly, though he does touch him, of course. He sits back and strokes his hands up Gale's arms, over his biceps, along his shoulders and over his chest; innocent, unprovocative touches. After all, he told himself he would be generous, but he never promised to be _direct_.

" _Tiger_ ," Gale says impatiently, "you know damn well what I mean. Touch my _cock_."

"I don't obey subtext," Taidgh tells him archly, even as he wraps a hand around him. "Say what you mean, or you'll get what I give you." The movement of his wrist is sharp and efficient, radiating impatience.

Gale makes a harsh noise. "Yes, like that exactly. Fuck." Taidgh ignores him, because in absence of an order he'll do what he likes, and he frankly doesn't care what Gale thinks he wants. He carries on with ruthless attention, Gale breathing harshly beneath him, and wonders how far he can get him before Gale realizes he needs to order a halt.

The answer turns out to be: if you can get him to the edge fast enough, nearly _too_ far. Gale's already in trouble by the time he pants, "Wait, stop, you're going to make me—" and Taidgh, of course, _doesn't_ stop. Gale grabs Taidgh's wrist, gathers himself enough to manage, "Tiger _, stop,_ I'm going to come—" but only just shy of going over.

Taidgh bares his teeth in a sharp grin as Gale holds both his wrists, keeping him out of trouble while Gale tries to pull himself back from the edge.

"I thought that was what you wanted?" Taidgh says, all false sweetness.

"If you thought that was what I wanted, you would have given me something else," Gale grouses.

Taidgh smiles his real smile. "Can't ask a bird not to fly." He leans forward a little, letting Gale support his weight with the hold on his wrists. "Of course, you can clip its wings. Or chain it to its perch. Or wring its neck and have it stuffed, and then it will never do anything but look pretty for you ever again. It's so much more convenient when your toys don't have agendas of their own, don't you think? You could make this much easier on yourself, you really could."

Gale rolls his eyes, but he’s tense in a way that says Taidgh is definitely getting under his skin. Then he rolls the rest of himself, and Taidgh in the bargain, so that Taidgh is beneath him with knees around his hips. 

That’s not an order; it’s force, and Taidgh responds accordingly.

Gale doesn’t see it coming, the idiot, and nearly loses his grip. He doesn’t _want_ to use force, and that’s to Taidgh’s advantage—even when he catches hold of him again, it’s only to contain him, not to hold him down. “Stop, Tiger, _stop_ , I’m not trying to—” _Stop_ is not specific at all, and easy to dodge. Taidgh stops one movement and starts another, just as disruptive, with his legs this time. It seems that maybe he _can_ hurt Gale, as long as it's not intentional; or at least, Gale believes he can, because he swears as he dodges a knee and then actually begins making an effort. He still barely manages to restrain Taidgh—he _is_ stronger, but he’s stupid, so stupid, he's pulling his punches, he never _learns_ —

“Don’t _fight_ me, Tiger,” he says, voice too soft and too desperate for the gravity of the order. 

Taidgh goes completely still.

He waits. Gives Gale time to realize what he has said, how completely it ruins this game they've been playing.

"I'm not trying to hold you down," Gale goes on, as if the scuffle hadn't just happened. He bends down to kiss Taidgh; Taidgh is so distracted by what happens when his entire being is primed to fight and the geas convinces his conscious mind it doesn't want to, he doesn't move away. Doesn't do anything, in fact, which gets the point across just as well as if he'd recoiled.

Gale pulls back, frowning at him, and then understanding dawns. Thank goodness; Taidgh knew he was dense, but he thought he could trust in Gale's foolish sense of fair play. Until this Gale has been fairly careful with his orders, mostly specific—to be so thoughtless and broad was uncharacteristic. It would have been better if he hadn't given the order at all—it's rather dampened the mood—but they can still get back on track, once he revokes it.

"Too far," Gale says softly.

"Yes." Not a question, but Taidgh answers it anyway, like a slightly sardonic schoolteacher with a particularly slow pupil.

Gale nods, and pulls back farther. So far, in fact, that he's moving to the other side of the bed, turning away as he goes. "I shouldn't have let it get nearly so far."

That isn't how it's supposed to go. Taidgh rolls over to creep close again.

Gale sighs and hunches away from him, spiky and unreachable now. "Go to sleep, Taidgh—" he bites off the _er_ at the last second, but it hovers there, dark in the air between them.

For the first time in this whole infuriating mess, Taidgh begins to know fear. Not fear, something else, something—

Panic. Carefully held back, pressed down with force, but it's there, gnawing at the edges. _Revoke it,_ he thinks, _revoke the order, how dare you, what are you, revoke it revoke it **revoke it**!_ but Gale is saying nothing, lying there as if he has every intention of going to sleep. As if he has no idea of the clawing, desperate animal he has set loose in Taidgh's brain.

Taidgh must keep calm, or the appearance of it, despite the rising hysteria that makes it nearly impossible to draw a full breath. This will be a fine, fine needle to thread, convincing Gale that he agrees to this when he's so successfully communicated that he _doesn't_.

"Gale," he says, low and gentle, as if he were about to offer comfort. Gale shifts a little in a way to acknowledge he's listening, but doesn't turn. Taidgh's tone stays quiet, but goes dry as paper. "If you mean to leave me wanting, you're even more of a bastard than I suspected."

Gale half-turns—wary, but surprised. "You were very clear on where you stand."

Taidgh tries to sound both irritated and inviting. "You forced a confession out of me. You _know_ the truth."

Gale, damn his eyes, focuses on the entirely wrong part of the statement. "I did, didn't I." He turns over again, turns inward, and Taidgh wishes the geas would let him smack some sense into him.

"Save us all the pity party." He moves close again, and this time Gale doesn't try to discourage him. He sets his mouth close to Gale's ear, speaking low, enticing. "I could make you a promise."

Gale breathes in, out. Taidgh can't tell whether it's to control anger or desire; he'll have to gamble on the latter. Gale sighs again. "I'm sure I'll regret asking. What promise?"

Taidgh's voice is all breath now—pricking up goosebumps on Gale's skin, he can tell. "Undo the last order. I promise I won't fight you. Not physically." He lets his mouth brush the skin, lets Gale feel the edge of his smile. "We both know you like it when I fight in other ways."

"You fight _dirty_ ," Gale mutters, which is rich coming from him, and also gives Taidgh a swell of hope.

"You like me dirty, too," he hisses, and is not at all surprised when Gale turns to seize him, fast as a striking snake.

"Disregard the last order then, Tiger, but don't you dare lie to me. Do you want this?"

Relief makes him giddy, and hungry for an outlet. He doesn't lie. " _Yes_ , you asshole, I told you I did." The truth can conceal a multitude of sins: _Wanting isn't absolution. I want this like a child wants to stick its hand in the fire. I want it like a dog wants garlic._

Gale doesn't listen for the meaning behind it; he hears, assesses the words as truth, and that is enough for him to press Taidgh to the mattress again. 

This time, Taidgh kisses back when Gale's mouth covers his. This time, he wraps his arms around Gale's shoulders, hooks his legs over Gale's calves, lets his hands explore every bit of his stupid, overpowered, amoral, irresistible monster of a half-brother. And it's easy, it's _so easy_ to be enthusiastic, because his body is a happy traitor.

He runs up against the geas once or twice, but only in ways that are mildly annoying: he wants to bite like he would with a true lover, but that's still harm, and he only manages to catch Gale's lip lightly, between unclosed teeth. Gale makes a rough sound regardless, so it's close enough, but—he can't rake his nails down Gale's back when Gale rolls his hips, either. 

That's something to ponder for another time: if he tells Gale _I want to hurt you during sex_ , will Gale change the rules to allow it? If so, will he be thorough enough to close all the loopholes that might result?

Oh, but later, _later_. Gale has shifted down and Taidgh has unthinkingly made room for the width of his hips, spreading his knees until Gale fits against him in a terrible, terribly intimate way. Gale's cock catches against sensitive skin before skidding off, again and again, a flurry of infuriating near misses even though Taidgh knows logically that he'll want more lubrication than just sweat and precome before that promise is delivered on. His desire is a tangible thing now, immense and ferocious, taking up all the available space so that his loathing is temporarily pushed out.

He musters the will to be contentious, but only just. Gale starts at the sound of his raspy laughter. 

“What?”

Taidgh smirks. “You. You’re so fucking _predictable_.” Gale’s confused, offended expression brings him _such_ joy. “Of _course_ missionary-position penetration is your default go-to. With you on top. _Really_."

Gale bristles; Taidgh likes him on the defensive. "Would you prefer it the other way?"

Taidgh laughs again, and this time it's not manufactured. "Because there are only two possible ways this can be done, obviously."

"If you _want_ something else, just _say_ it," Gale growls. The prohibition on harm doesn't go both ways, of course, and Taidgh is surprised to be glad of it—it means that Gale can grip his arms until it hurts, until his short nails dig in and Taidgh's pulse ratchets up, rabbiting in his chest.

"No one said I didn't want it. And I refuse," Taidgh pants gleefully, "to make up for your lack of imagination, besides. Take some responsibility."

" _Fine_ ," Gale snaps, his temper frayed to an end. He draws back just enough to disentangle himself, then flips Taidgh with frustrating ease and absolutely no delicacy. Taidgh scrambles up onto hands and knees on sheer instinct—then stops himself there when he remembers, honoring his promise not to fight.

Gale puts a hand on the back of his neck, forcing him down until his cheek is pressed against the sheet, ass still in the air; he pins him like that for a long moment with just slightly more force than necessary. "Hold that position until I release you, Tiger," he says at last, tightly controlled, and moves away to get oil.

Taidgh holds, breathing fast. Taidgh holds, and lets his mouth run on, thick with sarcasm.

“Yes, this is _much_ kinkier. Someone’s great-grandmother will be shocked, I’m sure.”

Gale ignores him. The bed dips with his returned weight; he lays one hand, spread wide, over the curve of Taidgh’s ass. Taidgh expects it to be the precursor to a smack, Gale lining up his aim; he’s surprised, though he shouldn’t be, when it becomes a caress.

“ _Stop_ ,” he growls, “Ew. I swear upon our blood, if you try to be _tender—_ ”

“You’ll do what?” Gale says, and the faint thread of smug amusement there is what Taidgh wanted from the beginning. _Yes,_ he thinks, with more hunger than he wants to acknowledge. _Own what you’ve done. Play the game I’m playing._

“I’ll figure something out,” Taidgh says primly. “Tell you sad stories of lost kittens. Recite every injustice I’ve ever heard of. No, better, every injustice that _you personally_ have not succeeded in righting.”

Gale huffs, and while it isn’t quite a laugh, it’s enough to tell Taidgh he’s on solid footing again. Then Gale delivers the slap Taidgh’s been agitating for—not as hard as Taidgh might have liked, but the sharp unexpected _crack_ of a sound it makes sends a thrill sparking through him regardless. “You may move position if you like,” Gale says, and Taidgh does, if only to arch his back and shift his knees further apart, making himself a prettier picture.

He pushes into Gale’s hands a little, too, but it doesn’t earn him another slap. Instead, Gale runs both palms up from his thighs and back down again, squeezing, spreading his cheeks. _Get **on** with it_, Taidgh thinks but doesn’t say, because that is nothing if not an invitation for Gale to take his time. Still, he snarls with frustration when Gale kisses his tailbone.

“It’s not tenderness,” Gale says, without prompting, and this time there’s a dark tension to the smugness that Taidgh doesn’t like at all, and then his mouth is moving _downwards_ , short beard scraping, hot wet breath and no, _no_ , no no no—

 _Yes_.His body is the worst of traitors, because he said that one aloud, and Gale _knows_ , he knows what he’s doing with his tongue and none of Taidgh’s frantic curses can protect him from being known. He’s allowed to move; he should move away, but he only spreads his knees further, presses back with his entire body, betrays himself in every way that matters. Gale does not have the decency to gloat, too busy destroying every fiber of integrity Taidgh might ever have claimed to have, too busy lighting every one of Taidgh’s nerves on fire with need and self-loathing in equal measure.

He is, at least, silent once the curses desert him. It’s cold comfort, when Gale cannot possibly miss his trembling, or the hitched sobs of breath, even unvoiced. 

He can’t hurt Gale, but there’s no moratorium on himself. He crosses his arms beneath his head, digs furrows into his forearms with his nails where Gale can’t see, and—falls apart. 

Falls _right the fuck_ _apart_.

It’s a relief when Gale moves to fuck him. Not because it’s any sort of reprieve; of course Gale’s just as good at that as he is everything else, the asshole. But he doesn’t complain when Taidgh pulls him down and straddles him instead, doesn’t stop Taidgh pretending that he can take back some small scraps of the dignity he’s lost by making him gasp and groan. 

(Taidgh can’t, though, not really—Gale catches him by the hips, fucks up into him in a way that’s more than devastating, and Taidgh has no chance of pulling himself together. It’s not equal, will never be, and Taidgh has given up his only chance to maintain some semblance of control—has made himself even more pathetic than Gale already did.)

Gale comes first, but even that is no sort of victory; he rolls them over without pulling out, presses hot biting kisses to Taidgh’s throat and jerks him off fast and frantic until Taidgh’s toes are curling. He comes with both hands fisted in Gale’s unfairly beautiful hair; if it weren’t the proof of his utter destruction, it would be high on the list of best sex he’s ever had. Top five, easy. 

The rush leaves him shaking, but he’s already proven that he can’t control his body the way he controls his face; the tremors of adrenaline give way to bone-deep shivering, despair manifesting physically in a way that’s impossible to hide. If there’s any mercy in the world, though, it’s this: Gale doesn’t question him about it, or maybe he simply attributes some other explanation to Taidgh’s current state. 

He moves off to the side, pushes Taidgh over so he can spoon against his back, holds him fast against the shaking. Taidgh hates him for being a comfort against his own crimes; hates himself for being comforted, for feeling like Gale’s solid arms are holding him together when their bearer is the reason he’s flying apart to begin with.

He digs furrows into his forearms with his nails where Gale can’t see, focusing on the sting of it until the shivering subsides.

There are no rules, after all, about damaging Gale’s _property_.


End file.
